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redocity · 1 month ago

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Buck teaching his gf how to drive a car since she only has her motorcycle license bur he's scared she's gonna grind the gearbox too hard in his jeep so they borrow Eddie's car?

AUTOMATIC DRIVE — E.BUCKLEY

after half a decade of motorcycle driving, you want to actually learn to drive a car. buck thinks an automatic drive is your best option.

evan buckley x fem!reader | 1.1k | fluff | masterlist.

a/n— the default in the uk is a manual car (they call it a stick shift in the us right?) and let me tell you, i wish i learned in an automatic it would’ve saved me so much grief

It was a warm Saturday afternoon, the kind of day perfect for a drive around the city.

Except for the fact that you were about to learn how to drive a car for the first time.

Sure, you had your motorcycle license and had been riding for years, but cars? Whole different story. And Buck, bless him, was trying his best to be supportive.

"You'll do great," Buck said, offering you a reassuring smile as you both stood next to his beloved Jeep.

You gave him a look, raising an eyebrow. "You sure? You were just muttering about the gearbox under your breath like two minutes ago,"

Buck winced slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, well, my Jeep is… special. It’s been through a lot, you know? The wildfires, rescues, that time it got stuck in the sand dunes—"

"I get it, Buck. Your Jeep’s your baby, I don't want to ruin it," you said, trying to keep from laughing at the anxiety creeping into his voice. “I don’t really need to be able to drive a car anyway—”

“No, no, you wanna learn to drive, you’re gonna learn to drive,” He sighed, looking between you and the Jeep, then pulled out his phone. "How about we call in a favour?"

—

Fifteen minutes later, Eddie rolled up, leaning out of the window of his family SUV with a raised eyebrow. “So, you’re trusting me with this? Or am I trusting you with my car?”

Buck laughed, walking over to greet him. “We’re trusting her with your car. I thought mine would be a little too, uh… temperamental for a first-time driver.”

Eddie glanced at you, a smirk playing at his lips. “Right. And you think my car’s gonna survive?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a grin tugging at your lips. “I promise not to grind the gears off your car, Eddie. I’ve been riding motorcycles for years—I think I can handle a sedan.”

Eddie chuckled and tossed Buck the keys. “It’s automatic, so there’s no gears to be grinded. Plus, you’d have to try pretty hard to kill the engine on accident.”

Buck let out a visible sigh of relief. “Thanks, man. You’re saving me a lot of stress right now.”

“Yeah, well, you owe me one. If my car comes back with any dents, you’re on babysitting duty for a month,” Eddie called out, as he climbed out of the car. “Also, I’m borrowing your Jeep,”

“Yep— Shoulda seen that coming—”

—

You slid into the driver’s seat of Eddie’s car, feeling a little out of place compared to your usual motorcycle stance. Buck was in the passenger seat, hands already on his knees, clearly trying to keep calm.

"Okay," Buck said, his voice calm but a little tight. "First, adjust your seat and mirrors."

You grinned at him. "I know that much, Buck."

“Right, right. Just… making sure.” He took a deep breath, his hand hovering near the dashboard. “Okay, now foot on the brake and shift into drive. And, uh, easy on the gas, alright? It’s not like your bike.”

“Easy on the gas. Got it.” You followed his instructions, shifting into drive and slowly pressing on the pedal. The car began to roll forward, and you felt a little rush of excitement. “Look, I’m doing it!”

“Yup! Doing great,” Buck said, his voice pitched just a little too high. His hand was now gripping the side of his seat, knuckles white.

You turned the wheel gently to navigate the quiet streets around the neighborhood, keeping your speed at a comfortable pace. Everything was smooth for a few blocks, and Buck’s tension seemed to ease.

“This isn’t so bad,” you said confidently. “It’s actually kind of like riding, just with more—”

Suddenly, a squirrel darted across the road.

“Brake! Brake!” Buck yelled, his arm instinctively shooting out in front of you as if to shield you from some invisible impact and his foot pushed into the floor like he had a phantom brake pedal of his own.

You slammed on the brake, and the car jerked to a hard stop. Both of you lurched forward slightly in your seats, but the squirrel scampered off unharmed.

There was a moment of silence, both of you staring out at the now-empty road. Then, you burst out laughing, the adrenaline turning into a kind of giddy relief.

“Are you okay?” you asked between giggles, glancing over at Buck.

He had his head in his hands, but he was smiling, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just, uh… maybe a little traumatised.”

You grinned. “Come on, I didn’t even hit it! I’m doing great!”

Buck leaned back in his seat, taking a deep breath. “Okay, okay. You’re right. Just… maybe next time, we ease into the brake a little slower?”

You nodded, still grinning. “You got it. No more squirrel-slamming.”

—

A little while later, after a few more practice rounds of smooth turns and gentle braking, you pulled the car into Eddie’s drive, parking it with as much precision as you could manage. It wasn’t great.

Buck let out a long sigh of relief as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

“Yeah, you seemed totally calm,” you teased, nudging him as you stepped out of the car.

Eddie emerged from the house, taking his keys back with a grin. “No dents. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks for letting me borrow it,”

Eddie waved it off, though he shot Buck a knowing look. “No problem. Just remember, Buck, if I ever need backup with Christopher or you’re feeling brave enough to return the favour… you owe me.”

Buck groaned, but he was smiling. “Fine, fine. Babysitting in exchange for not destroying your car. Deal.”

As you walked back toward Buck’s Jeep, you slipped your arm through his. “So, what do you think? Did I pass your driving test?”

Buck grinned, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “With flying colours. I just might need a drink after this to calm my nerves.”

You laughed, squeezing his arm. “Deal! I’ll drive us there.”

Buck froze, eyes wide in mock terror. “Uh, maybe I’ll handle that part…”

#9 1 1 #evan buckley #evan buckley x reader #9 1 1 fanfiction #buck x reader #evan buckley fluff #oliver stark #asks 🚒

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kingofthecotas · 6 days ago

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perfect disaster (ever after) | ao3

soulmate au, 2024 | ~4.5k (explicit)

this is long (valentino has a lot of self-reckoning to get through) so feel free to read it on ao3 if you prefer!

finally done! thank you to everyone who's read this series ily mwah

----

Valentino goes to Jerez.

Uccio rolls his eyes when he informs him, says, “I’ll be in the garage that weekend. I’ll bring the motorhome.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

Valentino reaches out and flicks the crease of Uccio’s elbow, where his mark is, and his friend softens like he always does. “Cheer up.”

“Why Jerez?”

“No reason.”

“Not because of Márquez, then?”

Valentino scowls. Marc has been riding well, yes, getting to grips with the Ducati, losing the front too often, but Valentino has a team, he has Bez and Diggia to look after, and Marc—

He hasn’t seen Marc for months.

“You need to decide what you want with this.” Now it’s Uccio’s turn to prod at Valentino’s mark, to send a comforting warmth up his arm. “It has been over for, what, nine years?”

“Well…”

Uccio stares at him. Blinks. “Actually, I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Good choice,” Valentino says brightly.

——

Jerez, Spain

His bravado evaporates once he’s in the paddock.

Jerez is—he still hates it, just a little. He’d been sat in the garage, stewing about his stupid engine or gearbox or whatever, and then Marc had been cartwheeling through the gravel trap.

He hadn’t called. Not until Mandalika, two years later.

And he—

That had cracked the careful wall; he’d shown Marc his bloody viscera, held it out tacky and red in his hands. And Marc—Marc had let him. Marc had answered the phone. Marc had kept answering the phone, until Valencia.

Part of Valentino wants to say fuck him. Another part sneers that it’s been this long, what’s the difference? If he’s feeling any kind of pull, it’s surely only the rotted dregs of what they had, the marks they both carry. Marc is Marc; there’s a reason they fell apart in the first place.

Marc is Marc, but he is not the same: not twenty and wide-eyed; not watching Valentino’s every move, logging every reaction like he can’t believe it’s happening to him. He’s changed, Jerez and Sepang and Valentino calcifying everything about him. It hurts more now, now that he’s had a taste of how they used to be, how good they were. How Marc could brush a hand over the mark, the soul-piece, and Valentino would grab his face and kiss him. Helpless. Choiceless.

He shouldn’t have gone in Valencia. He shouldn’t, because Marc had been upset—he’d been crying, however much he tried to hide it, red eyes, red nose—and Marc doesn’t fucking think sometimes. Just—reaches out. Races towards the gravel because he might not crash, he might win. Pushes his bike until he falls. Reaches for Valentino even when it hurts.

Hurts so much, apparently, that he’s finally pulled back. Stopped reaching. Closed his eyes, turned his face away. Valentino—well, he’s tried not to let it sting.

None of it matters when he spots Marc on the Friday, walking in step with his brother, and reaches a hand out with a smile before he can stop himself. “Marc—”

Marc rears away like he thinks Valentino’s touch will burn him.

Like he remembers how his own pinched expression smoothed out, curled up in the bed in his motorhome, when Valentino touched his mark. Like he hates himself for it.��

(Because he’d been awake. Valentino is sure he’d been awake.)

(Valentino had said his name. Marc had pretended to be asleep.)

Álex says, “No,” and pushes between them, head tilted in a challenge.

Fucking—Christ.

“Good to see you,” Valentino forces out, and stalks away.

——

“You’re riding well,” he tells Marc over the phone, instead of sitting down with Bez and saying talk to me, tell me what is wrong, the bike, the tyres, what is it?

Instead of opening his motorhome door and walking a few hundred metres.

Stony silence. Then, “What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you—”

“No.” Marc sounds tired in a way that sits in Valentino’s chest. “Why—why are you doing this, Vale? It was easier—” He cuts off. “At least when I knew you didn’t want me—that was easier.”

“Marc.” It’s like—a tooth hitting something hard, cracking, sharp cold pain, part of himself splintered away and falling to the ground.

“Fuck, Valentino, stop. Just—stop.”

Helpless, he does.

“I’m not—I won’t—you made it clear, no? This—you wanted this. So I do not understand why—I don’t know what you want. I don’t know why, and it’s—not fair.”

That hurts worse, somehow.

“Valentino?”

“Yeah?”

“Why?” Marc whispers.

And—what can Valentino say to that? Does he say that he still wakes up in the middle of the night in blind breathless panic, scrabbling for the part of Marc branded into his skin, begging for it to still be there? Does he tell him that the familiar bruise, the heavy numbness, is nothing compared to that half-second where the mark—his mark—had flaked away like ash and it had hurt deeper than he could ever comprehend? That it had been worse than he could have possibly imagined, that it proved every fear he’d ever had, that he—?

That Marc had been gone. That he will never change. That Valentino loves him anyway.

Not because the universe told him to. Because he’s Marc.

Valentino can’t say that. He can’t.

Marc makes a noise that might be a laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Marc—”

The line beeps.

——

He watches Marc on the podium, watches him smile and cheer and play to the crowd, alive and utterly beautiful.

He looks away before anyone catches him staring.

——

When he wakes up that night, gasping, the memory of it behind his eyes, the emptiness, the ash-smudge where Marc should be, he reaches for his phone. Stops.

He remembers Argentina sometimes, remembers how the wet grass hadn’t hurt but the anger had, clawing out of his throat, and his arm had burned where Marc had clattered into him.

He remembers how Marc stood on the side of the track in Sepang, too long, clutching his arm—and Valentino had thought it wasn’t that hard, it wasn’t even on purpose—

And now he thinks of Marc slapping a hand over his soulmark in Misano, of the way Marc had pulled away from him like a reflex three days ago. He thinks of the bone-deep bruise after Argentina—he’d felt it for days, and even in his anger had thought he didn’t hit me that hard—

He swallows. Exhales. Finds Marc, traces the shape of him. It throbs, that old bruise, like a half-healed injury. Does it hurt the same for Marc? he wonders absently, and swallows again.

In Valencia, had he—had it hurt? No, surely not, because Marc’s face that night—and the morning after, nothing but content. He hasn’t fucked it. Maybe.

Maybe he has.

He doesn’t call.

——

Marc crashes. Again. Again. Again.

Assen, that’s a big one, and Valentino has to steady himself when the anger rears its head, ugly and familiar. Marc used to piss him off so much—still can, apparently. Selfish bastard, he thinks, and there it is, that’s what he hated from the first moment. No warning, no choice, just a twist of the cosmos and a soulmark that could vanish as quickly as it appeared, a soulmate that didn’t care.

He’s lived that now, that nightmare, even if just for a heartbeat, and he’d spent long enough without being angry to truly recognise it when it returns.

Fear.

——

They were always meant to fall together, and that’s what made Valentino sick to his stomach.

Because it should have been his choice. It would have been.

I wanted to choose you. I would have, anyway.

It was so perfect, so fucking perfect, because of course it would have been. Of course. And he kept scratching and prodding and hurting, trying to prove something, and Marc always came back, because Marc believed in it. Until Valentino pushed too far.

And he’s Marc, and he’s an idiot, and he never understood what it meant to carry a piece of Valentino’s soul in him, and he never understood what it meant every time he lost the bike, and he never understood that it meant forever.

Valentino—maybe he never understood that Marc is Marc, and he loves fiercely and he races hard and he wanted him. Marc loved him.

Not anymore, maybe.

Anything. Anything Marc will give him now, he’ll lap it up like a starving dog. Anything is better than nothing. Anything is better than ash.

——

Misano Adriatico, Italy

Valentino is chilled to the bone by the time the team finishes their post-mortem: fine rain that seeps through even his waterproof coat, sits in his hair. Bez shakes his head like a wet dog as he leaves.

Franky must be annoyed at himself—he had the pace, and he wouldn’t have made the mistake of pulling into the pitlane. Pecco must be relieved. They’re expecting the ranch now: Misano, Valentino, food, friends, not-so-gentle ribbing, a race dissection. Valentino should send them off, tell them I’ll be right behind you, call ahead to make sure food is ready when they get there.

But—

Marc. Marc, practically vibrating with the thrill of it. As if Aragón hadn’t been enough, golden under the sun, he’d rolled in heavy as the clouds. Inevitable.

Valentino can’t—he can’t stop thinking about it, how Marc had been, objectively speaking, stupid, riding reckless, nothing to lose: everything that used to turn sour in his mouth when he pinned Marc against hotel walls and demanded he understand what it would mean to lose him. He can’t stop thinking how it had been beautiful. Marc had been beautiful.

In the end, he sends the boys off to Tavullia, sends Uccio to play referee. He might join them later.

For now, he lets his feet take him, a step at a time, past his own motorhome and towards Marc’s. It won’t be long, surely; it’s late already, and they have to clear the paddock before tomorrow. So he waits, rain clinging in his hair, in his clothes, until he shivers: sticky-cold, unpleasant. He waits.

Marc is mercifully alone when he appears, huddled in his coat, and stops when he finds Valentino at the top of the metal steps. His eyes narrow, none of the thrumming electricity from before remaining. Maybe he’s thinking of the last time Valentino came to his motorhome.

A second later—an awful awful second—Marc silently opens the door and lets Valentino follow him through, a miracle in itself. It’s stifling, though, as Marc puts his cap on the kitchen worktop, kicks off his shoes, and tilts his head at Valentino to tell him where he can stand, on the other side of the countertop. Barrier between them. Valentino does as he’s directed, rests on his elbows, tension heavy like a storm in the air.

One look tells him this is it. He has no more chances.

“Well done,” Valentino whispers, and the way Marc shrinks away from him now, retreats even further than before Valencia—it aches.

“Thank you.”

“Can I—?”

“You probably will anyway.”

“Marc.”

“Valentino.”

They teeter there for a long moment, cliff edge. Marc is forgiving, yes, but even he had limits; Valentino doesn’t know if he wants to find them. “You cannot say you don’t know what I want when you are being like this.”

The scowl that crosses Marc’s face is so petulant it could be funny. “Like what?”

“Like—we were—I thought we were getting better.”

“Better?”

Valentino decides to push. “It was good, no? In Valencia?”

Marc almost chokes; he’s angry, Valentino realises too late. “Valencia—?”

“Not for you then.” And he’s done it, found the edge and sent them tumbling from the sky.

Not for the first time.

“You left,” Marc snarls, face white, fists clenched. “That morning, you just—”

“You were pretending to be asleep!”

Marc stops. “I—”

“Like you didn’t want to—” Valentino waves a hand. “So yes, I left. You ignored me.”

Marc gapes.

“You died, also,” Valentino says. May as well, if they’re doing this. They’re going to hit the ground hard anyway. “You were gone, and it hurt. And—I will do anything to never feel that again. Selfish, yes. I don’t care. I always knew—you were going to hurt me.”

“Fuck you—”

“Please listen.” It’s a grace he doesn’t deserve that Marc does, that he waits. Maybe he wants to see the shape of Valentino’s insides one last time, wants them laid out bloody and exposed here in his motorhome kitchen. “That is what I—it hurt more than I could have imagined. And I imagined it a lot. As soon as you—the moment I had you, I was scared of losing you.”

“You said you never wanted me.” A flash of Marc, pressed against the wall of his motorhome, clawing at Valentino’s arm. If I could rip you out of me, I would.

“No, it’s—” And how can Valentino ever put it into words in a way that won’t lock him out for good? Yes, before. No, not at first. Yes, after. Yes, for years. Not now.

“I didn’t die,” Marc says finally, words tiny in the gulf between them.

“Not for lack of trying, hm?”

Eyes rolled. Familiar argument. “I’m racing, Vale. That’s all.”

And, “I know.” He knows. That’s all it ever was.

“You said—” Marc swallows. “You wanted the choice.”

“Yes.”

“You would have chosen me.”

Easier to say it at five o’clock in the morning, half-asleep, terror still fresh in his veins. Valentino closes his eyes. “Yes.”

“I don’t understand,” Marc says, wrung out of him, twisted and squeezed until he gives way. “I—”

When Valentino opens his eyes, Marc is staring back at him, cracked open, wavering.

“You’re such a fucking—” And Marc laughs. “You’re so difficult. You would have anyway. You just—didn’t like that it wasn’t your decision.”

What the fuck can he say to that?

“And you were so—” Marc gestures loosely. “You just—were you looking for an excuse, was that it?”

“No—”

“Any reason for you to prove something to the universe.” A flash of teeth: an animalistic snarl. “Because you never asked for this. You never wanted it. You wanted your tenth championship more than you wanted a soulmate.”

“I wanted you,” Valentino whispers. “I want you.”

“You said—” Marc cuts off. Shakes his head. “You—I don’t understand you. I don’t know—I don’t know what you want.”

“I just told you.” The words are acid, because Marc doesn’t believe him.

You still want me, right?

Too much—too much since then. Too much pushing and scratching, and their foundations have long since crumbled. He can’t reach out and find forgiveness, can’t conjure it up with the brush of fingers on skin.

“You told me a lot of things, Valentino.”

You rode well. You need to stop crashing. I want you. I love you. I never wanted this. I love you. I hate you. I love you.

“Marc—” There’s panic now, cold and sickening at the back of his throat, because Marc might close up, tell him to leave, and that would be it: no more cracked door, no more answered calls. Gone for good.

Nothing but an old bruise.

“Why did you answer the phone?”

That makes him pause, mid-step. “What?”

“When I called, after your crash. Why did you answer?”

“I was concussed,” Marc says, mean, eyes narrowed, trying to hurt. Trying to see how much Valentino means this, if he’ll respond in kind. Blood for blood.

“Ah, well, they should not have given you your phone, if that was the case.”

Marc doesn’t crack. “Why did you call?”

“You know why.”

“No, I don’t. You maybe—you wanted to make sure you didn’t lose your mark? Only because it hurt, of course. You wanted to remind yourself that all I do is crash?” Pushing, pushing, the way Valentino used to: pushing to the limits and beyond, scratching and snarling, testing the reaches of intertwined fate. ��Fuck, Vale—give me a straight answer for once in your life.”

Well, they’ve never been very good at that. Valentino drops his head, presses fingers to his pinched forehead. “You’re my soulmate.”

“That you don’t want.”

“Now who is difficult?” he retorts before he can stop himself, and Marc’s expression settles into something—somewhere between satisfaction and resignation. He pushed Valentino over the edge. Won the battle to lose the war. “No, listen—you are my soulmate. I did not want a soulmate.”

“I know.”

“I want you. Do you see?”

“No.”

“I’m trying,” Valentino says quietly, and that seems to buy him a little more time, a little more grace. “Why—why did you—in Valencia, why didn’t you answer me?”

Marc folds his arms, throws his walls back up. “Does it matter?”

“If we are being honest with each other, then…”

“If I—” Honesty comes as difficult to Marc as it does to Valentino, apparently. “If I opened my eyes, it was over. But you left anyway, so.”

“And…you did not want it to be over?”

The glare Marc levels at him this time is frigid. “You were the one who—”

“Yes, but—even then?”

“Before, then, now.” Marc shrugs, like that isn’t monumental, seismic.

“Oh,” Valentino says, exhales the word and watches it float away. His limbs are air, all of a sudden, because Marc is not the same as ten years ago and Valentino has been unforgivable and yet—

Marc wants him.

Despite it all, he smiles.

“Do not—” Marc hisses. “Do not fucking laugh at me.”

“No—no. Sorry. I am sorry.” He shakes his head. “I’m—so fucking sorry.” For it all. Such a small word for everything he’s done.

Marc’s tight jaw loosens. “You are getting good at saying this.”

“We are never too old to stop learning, I think.”

Silence.

“Sorry,” Valentino offers again; Marc looks at him and he’s feeling fucking giddy now, helium-light, floaty.

Marc swallows, says, “Valentino,” in a way that pulls him back to earth.

He has no right to expect it to be that easy, not after everything. The lightness turns leaden.

“You are not being fair,” Marc whispers, throat clicking as he swallows again, eyes shining. It’s worse, this, than his probing cruelty. “You—it is always up to you, no? You want me, you do not want me. I will keep racing. I will crash. You will change your mind again. I am not—I will not do that.”

“I will not change my mind—”

“I think you will. I will race Pecco too hard, maybe. I will go to the ranch and you will get that look—like you remember it is the rest of our lives and it scares you, or like you hate me for something that I—I could not control any more than you could. I am not waiting for you to remember that you do not want me.”

Valentino drops his head again, presses his thumbs into the corners of his eyes. His head hurts. He’s cold. “You will be waiting a long time. For that.”

“How long?”

“Forever.”

“That is a long time.”

“Yes.”

“Look at me.”

Valentino does, helpless. Marc’s expression is wretched; his eyes dance, side-to-side, until he’s found whatever he was looking for in Valentino’s face. He pulls his eyebrows together, turns the corners of his mouth down.

“I mean, I know the sex was good, but…”

The laugh sputters out of Valentino’s chest, halfway hysterical, almost a sob, and Marc grins, triumphant, because he’s joking, he’s— “Don’t be a bastard.”

“I am allowed this, no?”

Valentino tips his head, side to side. “You are allowed this a little, I think.” He lets himself smile. “Why did you answer the phone?”

“You know why.”

He does. But—

But.

“I was not the one who—” and Marc stops this time, swallows the words. Like he knows they might hurt. Like he cares that they’ll hurt.

There’s hope now, singing a thready song in time with Valentino’s pulse. If he can just grasp it—

“You should—you should come to Tavullia,” he says in a rush. “Not—not the ranch. My house. Please. You should.”

Marc stares, disbelief written openly on his face.

“I know—I know this means—it is forever. I know that. I will not—”

“The team will want to celebrate,” Marc says, dull.

“Oh.”

“But—well. We will finish early, probably. We have to prepare for the flyaways.” A shrug. “After that…”

“After that,” Valentino agrees on an exhale.

Marc smiles.

——

Valentino had meant it: they’d been good in Valencia. It had been good. It also—hadn’t been.

Valencia was—it was Marc upset, falling to pieces between his hands in all the wrong ways, fracturing until he slipped away like sand. Marc didn’t understand, thought he was playing Valentino’s game, and Valentino had thought finally, finally, he’d fixed it. It had been frantic, too frenetic after eight years without. It had been a supernova, brilliant and bright for an agonising second before the sky went dark again.

Not this time. Valentino is not ashamed to admit his elbows are starting to strain, arms taking his weight, but he’s not rushing this, not when he has Marc between his planted palms, staring up at him and grinning. Marc’s not drunk, but—pink cheeks, eyes shining dark in the half-light, hair a mess, smiling so widely it’s splitting his face. They used to be good; this might be better.

Valentino rolls his hips, bites his lip at the friction, forces his eyes to stay open because Marc’s smile melts into a perfect gasp, eyelashes fluttering.

Marc had made it to Tavullia. He had then made it no further than the sofa.

“Vale—” he hisses, and there’s the scrape of fingernails, but across Valentino’s back, far from any soulmark.

“Okay?”

“Of course it’s okay—” Another broken-off inhale. Marc grabs Valentino’s right arm, just above the elbow; when he steadies himself, he slides his fingers up, traces the oh-so-familiar outline, and Valentino’s smooth, careful movement turns jerky at the burst of sparks. “Stop—fucking around.”

Valentino laughs, light, and Marc’s mouth finds his, smiling again.

The quivering electricity fades, but Marc presses his big palm over Valentino’s mark and keeps it there, warm and steady, says here, I’m here, I’ll always be here without words. Valentino can feel it, the promise of it, beating with his pulse—not throbbing, not bruised, not anymore. He drags his hips up, slowly again, relishing the heat around his cock, watching Marc’s face as his sigh melts into something blissful.

It doesn’t matter what the universe says; it never mattered, because this is Marc. He’s an idiot, and Valentino’s an idiot, but they’re here and they’ve chosen to be here.

That—that has to mean something.

——

“Vale.”

He cracks open one eye, forces himself out of the doze that had almost become sleep. “Mm?”

“I have an early flight,” Marc whispers, warm against his skin. Cracking the door open, dismissing himself before Valentino has to.

“You should go to sleep, then.”

Silence—then, in the dark of Valentino’s room, Marc smiles. It’s shadowed in the watery moonlight trickling through the curtains: Marc, silhouetted all silvery beside him in bed, the lines of his body, his mussed hair, his cheeks curved up as he beams. Hot breath ghosts over Valentino’s mark—his mark, his mark—and he shivers.

“Long flight, yes?”

“Indonesia.”

“Ah,” Valentino says, like he doesn’t already know.

“Not my favourite.” They’re heavy, those words; they carry a lot.

“Not mine, either.” But, Valentino supposes, it’s a little like full circle, in a fucked-up way. Mandalika: Marc falls; he picks up the phone. And now, now—

Now he might finally have what he always should have wanted, what he only realised he’d miss when he nearly lost it for good. Forever.

It’s as if Marc can read his mind, because he rolls closer, chin pressing into Valentino’s chest. “What…?” He stops. “What if I never had that crash?”

Valentino has been trying to avoid thinking about that, mainly because he doesn’t have an answer himself. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I said at the time, yes?” Valentino reaches over to tap a finger on Marc’s soulmark, smiling when he sighs.

“Stop trying to distract me—”

“Without this, my mark, I would not have called. So that is something.”

Marc tilts his head, like he remembers what they said on the phone that first time, like he turns it over in his head as often as Valentino does. “You never—before that, you talked about it differently. You never said—you never called it yours.”

Another thing Valentino has no answer to. Maybe Marc just needs to say it, let it take form and hover between them. He hopes so. He’s gotten off lightly so far.

“You know in 2015–”

Jesus. Maybe not.

“I was racing,” Marc says, unapologetic but like he needs to say it, needs Valentino to hear it. “Don’t look like that—we never fucking talked about anything before. We just had sex.”

“Good sex.”

“Valentino.”

“I thought you had a flight in the morning—”

“Valentino.”

Valentino sighs. “I know you were racing. I know it was nothing else. I know. I just—I was already—you had crashed so much, bad crashes that year, and it was like you didn’t care about yourself, or my races. There was so much, and there was Jorge, and the championship, and my soulmate had a death wish. It—everything. All of it.”

Marc’s eyes glint in the thin darkness, watching him steadily.

“Not an excuse. I—”

“You hurt me.”

“I know,” Valentino croaks. Hurt his arm. Hurt their marks. Hurt him so deeply it’s a miracle they’re here at all.

He wonders if it means something, for that little part of him to live now among the rest of Marc’s scars. If Marc had ever felt his arm ache and not been sure which injury was digging old teeth in. If Valentino ever became, even for a while, just something else Marc had healed from.

But Marc is forgiving, or maybe just tired, and he tucks his head in, settles himself in Valentino’s arms.

“It’s a long triple header.”

“Yes,” Marc murmurs, and he doesn’t sound upset about the change in topic. It’s more than Valentino deserves.

“What are you going to do after?”

“Get ready for the next triple header.”

Valentino curls his right arm around Marc’s shoulders, fingers finding scars and soulmark. There’s himself. There’s Marc. “Sensible. What about after that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You could come back here. You should.”

Marc looks at him. Smiles. “And after?”

“Ah, I have a race. And you have the test. Ducati, of course. After that, you will come back here again.”

A smirk, no sharp edge to it. “I will?”

“Yes,” Valentino says, and it sings between them, the certainty of it. The promise. “You will.”

#it’s doneeeeee #please like it 😭#rosquez #motogp rpf #marc marquez #valentino rossi #cara.fic #ptsftp

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sadgi · 8 months ago

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compiling information about the kineema, because I'm normal

hi. you may remember me from this post talking about how the kineema doesn't have a hood. I've decided to compile all the *other* info I can get on the kineema and comment on it. hopefully this is okay to read

---

let's start with what I could find on fayde

INTERFACING - With its air-cooled, rear-mounted twelve cylinder compression ignition engine driving the rear wheels through a four-speed manual gearbox, the Kineema is able to reach 100 kilometres per hour in 13.5 seconds. And go on to a top speed of 180 kilometres an hour. YOU - Won't it roll over in the first sharp corner? INTERFACING - The high centre of balance is offset by a large battery bank mounted at the bottom of the cabin, feeding all the auxiliary systems and making the Kineema effectively a mobile power plant.

air-cooled: no radiator. I assume this is what those big heat-sink looking things on sides of the engine are for

compression ignition engine: diesel, no spark plugs (diesel engines are named after a guy, rudolph diesel, so I guess in elysium they didn't do that)

rear wheel drive: this is pretty obvious just looking at the thing

100 kilometres per hour in 13.5 seconds: not very fast acceleration compared to modern cars, but the history of cars in elysium is obviously very different to irl

battery bank: this is the only thing keeping the kineema from tipping backwards onto its ass as soon as you accelerate

YOU - "What's it packing there?" (Point to the engine.) KIM KITSURAGI - "Hundred-and-thirty." INTERFACING - I reckon that's a seven-litre V12 there. ENCYCLOPEDIA - Man, that's got to be a major advancement over the KR18GU engine on the old Coupris 40. YOU - "Wait, hundred-and-thirty what?" KIM KITSURAGI - "Kilowatts," the lieutenant replies laconically.

130 kilowatts: ~174 horsepower

YOU - "That's what..." (Rub your chin.) "... a seven-litre V12?" KIM KITSURAGI - "Seven-point-two. Supercharged." The lieutenant is trying to suppress a smug smile. Unsuccessfully. EMPATHY - Saying these words brings him immense joy.

7.2 litre engine: space inside the cylinders. 7.2L/12 = 600cc per cylinder

supercharged: has a supercharger. forces more air into the engine, powered by the crankshaft (as opposed to turbochargers which are powered by the exhaust)

YOU - Run your fingers over one of the steering levers. COUPRIS KINEEMA - The white suede feels luxurious under the touch and the metal clutch handle so very familiar in your palm... INTERFACING - Your fingers waste no time closing around the handle. Clutch disengaged. Release the handle -- clutch drops -- right foot yearns for the familiar touch of the accelerator pedal. You have synced with the machine's mechanical circulation.

YOU - "A *driver* would wear down their right shoe before the left -- the accelerator is on the right. And remember that abandoned lorry cabin we found?"

steering levers: instead of a steering wheel. not exactly sure how they'd work. I *really* don't want it to have differential steering like a zero-turn mower looking at this video of kim driving it looks like the front wheels are the ones steering

clutch handle: instead of a pedal, the clutch is a handle on one of the levers. seems that accelerator and (probably) brake are still pedals

accelerator is on the right: does everyone left-foot brake??? I guess if the clutch handle is standard then that would make sense

ABANDONED LORRY - The glass on the side windows is tinted and covered with dust. You can barely make out the shape of a seat and two steering levers. [...] YOU - Check the pedals. ABANDONED LORRY - You wedge yourself under the steering-wheel to get a better look. Seems like the few tools lying around here -- a hammer, a pair of pliers, a rusty wrench -- have been casually thrown there by the disorganized driver. ABANDONED LORRY - But one odd detail does catch your eye: A piece of sandpaper has been glued to the throttle.

STEERING WHEEL TYPO

---

alright, let's actually take a look at this thing

two door: the kineema has a single driver's seat and two seats in the back. looks like you'd need to move the front seat forward to let anyone else in

suspension: the back wheels look like they have some sort of spring (the axle is connected to it, so how are the wheels being driven??? same with the coupris 40). I assume the front arms also act as a spring

rear view mirror: looks like there's no rear view mirror, since you wouldn't see shit

aerodynamics: bad

seat belts:

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#disco elysium #coupris kineema #de

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umlewis · 15 days ago

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lewis hamilton is interviewed during the press conference on media day [part 1/2], brazil - october 31, 2024 (transcript under the cut)

Interviewer: "Why don't we start with the honorary citizen of Brazil? Lewis, you're back in a country you love, at a circuit you love, where you've had a lot of success in the past. Just how excited are you, ahead of this grand prix?" Lewis: "Good afternoon, everyone. I love coming here. I've been really excited about the trip and just getting back. Every opportunity I have to spend time here, you learn more about the culture, you are able to engage more. I know the Senna Foundation did an amazing event last night, with all the great work that they're doing. And it's just the colors, it's Ayrton, it's the culture, the people. So you really vibe off that through the whole weekend." Interviewer: "Lewis, you say it's Ayrton. There's a very special thng happening on Saturay evening here. You're gonna be driving his 1990 McLaren. How special is it for you to commemorate him here at Interlagos?" Lewis: "Well, I mean, every time we come here is an opportunity to do that, and I think so many of the drivers also do that. But I never in a million years thought I would get to drive Sanna's car here, so when… I remember someone contacted me… My manager told me about it, and I jumped at the opportunity. Back in the day when I was at McLaren I did get the chance to drive the MP4/4 around Silverstone, which was incredble, and… But just the thought of driving that car around here… I remember the races when he finally won here and held the flag, and yeah, it'll definitely be quite an emotional experience, and I hope people are here to see it. I had a helmet made with… Just his helmet, made for me, but I don't know if we're using that one tomorrow. But I think the initial hope was for it to be a suprrise. So I had an all-white suit and his helmet, and I'd go out and drive the lap and it would just look like it was him out there. But somehow it got out there and [laughs] it's impossible to keep things quiet." Interviewer: "Lewis, it's a manual gearbox. How's your heel-and-toe-ing these days?" Lewis: "I'm always heel-and-toe-ing, so… [laughs] No, it used to be really good when I was younger, and when I did the MP4/4 I was able to do it back then. Something I miss. I wish we had that in Formula 1. I mean, the two-pedal thing is just not exciting, and they need to bring back the HBOX. It was awesome." Interviewer: "Look, let's bring it back to Mercdes now, what's happening this weekend - a sprint weekend. It was the best combined performance for the team since the summer break, last weekend in Mexico. Just how confident are you of getting a good performance here?" Lewis: "'Confident.' I mean, it's been a very turbulent year. I think we always arrive with confidence and with a positive mental attitude, but the car is just… I don't know how… I'm sure it's similar for the other drivers, but there's glimpses of hope, and then things swing back and forth-whether it's tires, whether it's the aero-so you enver know what you're gonna get. I always feel like Forrest Gump when I say that. But then yeah, I'm hoping the car… The last race was really positive for us, in terms of the end result, but through the weekend was definitely… George's crash during the weekend, and then I started with a bad start of the race but then got better towards the end. So there's definitely potential within the car and we're always looking to just fine-tune it and hope we can extract more from it, and I'm hoping with the new surface here maybe we can have a better race."

#lewis hamilton #f1 #formula 1 #brazilian gp 2024 #fic ref #fic ref 2024 #brazil #brazil 2024 #brazil 2024 thursday #franco colapinto #lance stroll #sewis #with george #(note to self: seb was at senna foundation event last night)

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katyawriteswhump · 9 months ago

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a deep and dreamless love (steddie love month, day 11)

For @steddielovemonth, day 11. 'Love is saving the last bite for them,' from (@acasualcrossfade) Thank you <3

Rating: M WC: 1,630 CW: blood drinking and mild horror. Tags: Vampire au, vampire Eddie, angst and whump with fluffy softness!

…

“You sure you can make it home all right?” Robin climbed out of Steve’s car and paused at the driver’s window. “It’s awfully dark already.”

“It’s cloudy, Robin! Cloudy daylight fries vampires as good as any July scorcher. Now get inside. Before you have to run and fall on your face.”

“Low blow, Dingus.” She curled her lip, muffled her overlong woolly scarf tight beneath her chin. “You know you can always crash h—"

“Robin! If you don’t quit yammering, we’ll BOTH end up as vamp juice-boxes.”

“If we’re gonna play that game, Shit-bird, don’t catch sight of your stupid hair in the rear-view mirror and start fiddling. Don’t wanna find your shrivelled body with my mail.”

“Hilarious. Get inside. Please?”

Steve waited to check she was safe indoors before driving off. He felt bad for being extra cranky, because she was right. He was running late. Their boss had made them stay for extra cleaning at the store, and thick clouds brooded low across an already darkening sky. However, crashing with Robin wasn’t an option.

She was safe now.

Eddie needed him more.

He drove fast, burning rubber round the corners. Nobody enforced speeding laws in Hawkins these days, not this close to sundown. He was halfway home, when the engine spluttered. Then clonked. He hit the break, thrashed at the gearbox. The BMW choked pathetically and conked out completely.

“No.” Steve flicked the ignition key. Nothing. “You gotta be kidding.”

He jumped out, opened the hood. Oil, water. Is the battery disconnected? He could hardly see in the dim light, plus he’d little faith in his basic car maintenance skills.

Especially with his damn stupid hands shaking.

He slammed down the lid, sprinted the hundred yards back to the nearest phone booth. He fumbled a coin into the slot and dialled.

It rang. Once, twice, three times, four times. Steve pushed sweaty hair from his eyes. “C’mon, Eddie, pick up! I really don’t wanna die, 'cos you’re moshing to Van Halen.”

The rings finally cut off: “Munson Mansion.”

“What took you?” Now Steve spoke, he realised he was practically hyperventilating. “I’m in serious shit. My car broke down.”

“Dammit, it’s dark already? Shiiiiit! Must’ve overslept. Okay, calm down.” Eddie sounded, if anything, even less calm than Steve. “Where are you?”

“C-corner of Mason and Sherman.”

“Hold tight, Sweetheart. I’m a comin’.”

Steve pulled the collar of his jacket up—redoubling the defences of the scarf he’d worn all day—and started swiftly back toward the car. The shadows of night slinked across the grey front lawns, swallowing up broken picket fences.

Then swallowing up Steve.

He considered running up a driveway, hammering on somebody’s door—a better option than hunkering down in the car, though only if someone let him in.

Too late.

A tall figure in a hoodie appeared as if from nowhere, and blocked Steve’s path. The vampire’s toothy grin flashed in the chilly twilight.

“It’s rude to sneak up on people." Steve squared his shoulders, battling to keep his voice low and steady. “You hear me, knucklehead?”

He reached into his jacket, gripping the wooden stake he always carried. Before he could line up any kind of aim, the vamp was on him, knocking the stake from his hand. He grabbed Steve by the front of his shirt, lifting him clean off the ground. Goddamn vampire super-strength! Steve kicked the bloodsucker on his leg. Hard. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even lose his grip.

“Payback time, Harrington.”

“What the—”

Steve attempted a punch, which fell short. He then registered the face behind the leering fangs. It was a football player, who’d graduated a couple of years before Steve.

“Chad Lloyd? Seriously? You’re not still pissed about—”

“You kissed my girlfriend, douchebag.”

“I was lifeguarding! I had no idea she was fake drowning till she shoved her tongue into my mouth. Gimme a break.”

Chad beamed, cheesier than ever. “Oh, I’m gonna break you, Harrington. Before or after I drink you dry.”

“Look, if you wanna keep a date, you really need to work on your one lin—”

He hurled Steve to the ground. Steve landed with a bruising, stunning thud. Then the vamp was upon him, rolling him over, ripping off his scarf and pulling down his collar. Steve kicked and struggled, though he’d almost no hope of escape.

“Hey, what’s this?” Chad tore away the neat dressing tucked under the side of Steve’s chin. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised that slutty Steve Harrington is someone’s sloppy seconds.”

No. Not there! Nobody else drinks from there!

He rammed his knee up into the vamp’s happy-sacks. Then shoved the tender side of his wrist—and that throbbing latticework of veins—right in the sucker’s face.

Chad snarled, grabbed Steve’s arm, hoisted the whole of Steve upright with it. His freshly erupted fangs ripped deep into Steve’s wrist, and he chugged greedily.

Steve’s vision spotted. The usual woolly, sicky feeling swelled in his guts, fogged his brain. He slumped, helpless and terrified, against the vampire. Who just kept drinking.

Okay… I screwed up… Screwed up bad... I always tried so damn hard to save myself for you... Miss you already, Babe… Oh, Jesus!

He was unsure if he heard the distant roar of a motorcycle engine. Could’ve been the fading thunder of his own blood. Then the whoosh of a crossbow bolt gashed into his waning consciousness. Once more, the sidewalk flew up to meet him. He’d a vague notion that the vamp fell too, smacking down beside him.

Eddie’s worried face filled his vision. His heart squeezed sluggishly, aching with love, and the world disintegrated to nothingness.

…

“Steve? C’mon. Wake up. Please wake up.”

Steve’s eyes fluttered open. “Huh?”

“You’re back!” Eddie squeezed him tight. “You scared the crap outta me.”

This was nice. He’d never object to waking up in bed with his naked boyfriend, and half-naked himself. Apart from… Actually, not feeling so awesome.

Unsettling memories trickled back.

“How you doing?” asked Eddie. “That bastard drank waaaaay too—”

“M’fine.”

To be truthful, the whole right side of his body felt like it’d been slammed by a truck. He lifted his bandaged arm to drape around Eddie’s shoulders and struggled to disguise the effort.

“Nothing the usual routine won’t fix.” He smirked. “You know, water, spinach, lentils. Gourmet steak dinner with red wine.”

Eddie planted a sizzling kiss on Steve’s cool, sticky brow. “Only wish we could afford that for you, Sweetheart.”

“I’ll take sex for dessert. Plus we don’t have to pay for your food.”

Steve’s fingers had barely touched the fresh bandaging on his throat, before Eddie snatched them, kissed them, tucked them away again. “You’ve lost too much already.”

“But—”

“I can go a night without feeding, Baby.”

“If you skip dinner, you’ll be grouchy and pathetic in the morning.”

What Steve really wanted was to wrestle Eddie into submission. He’d tease and goad him into unleashing that vampire super-strength, grappling till Steve was the one pinned to the mattress and then...

Annoyingly, Steve was too feeble to even try and sit, so he sneered. “What happens if I’m dumb enough to get jumped again tomorrow? Or Robin, or Dustin, or any of the kids? As much as I hate to admit it, they need a tame vamp looking out for them, way more than they need me these days”

“Answers still ‘no way in Hell.’ Which I’m heading to for sure, but at least the music will be—”

“Don’t change the subject. Look, I nearly got my arm torn off offering that moron my wrist. All to save the best bite for you.”

Eddie stroked Steve’s hair. “Emotional blackmail ain’t gonna work tonight.”

Good job I’ve learned to play dirty.

This time, Steve ripped the dressing from his neck before Eddie could stop him, revealing the twin fang marks Eddie left last night.

And every night.

“What? Why!?! Don’t want…” Eddie flinched away. “I don’t like this, Stevie.”

Steve snaked his good arm up, threaded his fingers through Eddie’s lush tresses. He tugged Eddie down toward his throat.

As if on cue, a drop of hot blood trickled from the barely healed punctures. A groan shook through Eddie. He clamped onto Steve’s lifeblood, incisors piercing deep.

Steve bit his lip against a keening, desolate cry. Love didn’t only suck—it stung like a bitch, and the tide of Eddie’s hair smothered him. Still, the slip of Eddie’s tongue against his blood-slickened skin always flipped him out, in a not-entirely-bad way. From the corner of his eye, he strained to catch glimpses of Eddie drinking.

Gnnng! Too damn hot.

Soon, little stuttering gasps escaped him, as he teetered on a knife-edge. Damn, if Steve wasn’t already so shattered, so woozy, he’d be so up for sex after this…

…until he wasn’t. It hurt too much.

Eddie ripped himself free, jumped from the bed, and was gone.

Steve lay there, trembling violently, his blurry vision further misted with tears. Completely at Eddie’s mercy.

I’m safe. I'm safe.

Soon after he grew too weak to keep his eyes open, he sensed the skitter of featherlight fingertips. Eddie had returned to bandage him up again. Then Eddie gathered him into his arms and roused him with a tender kiss.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” mumbled Steve, lips moistened with his own blood.

“Holy shit, Stevie.” Eddie stuck out his tongue, kinda silly. His eyes shone with fear. “I’m a vampire. A goddamn evil, blood-sucking predator. One day, I might not be able to stop.”

“That’s bull.” No evil could overcome a nature as sweet and soft as yours. “I trust you.” I trust our love. Steve nuzzled into his favourite tattooed parts of Eddie’s chest.

I’ll save the last bite for you. Always.

He slipped away, warm and cherished in Eddie’s arms, and into a deep and dreamless sleep.

...

(also part of my steve whump fic series on AO3.)

#steddielovemonth #steddie fanfiction #steddie #steve harrington whump #steddie fic #steve x eddie #steddie fanfic #steve harrington x eddie munson #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie x steve #steddie ficlet #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things

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coimbrabertone · 6 months ago

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Formula One Was Good Actually?

Yes.

I can't believe it either, but I did actually enjoy the F1 race this weekend.

Okay, so, just going to get the elephant out of the room now - the fact that Lando Norris won instead of Max Verstappen is doing a lot of heavy lifting here, but it's not just because of that - and now that I've said that, I'm going to talk about why I enjoyed F1 yesterday at the 2024 Miami Grand Prix.

Full disclosure, I didn't watch the sprint and it doesn't sound like I missed much.

In the race, however, something interesting happened...Max didn't break the field right away. He pulled a bit of a gap on Leclerc, yes, but Piastri in third was quick, and he managed to overtake Leclerc for second pretty early on, even started gaining.

Once Max pit, it was Piastri in the lead by a pretty comfortable margin, then Sainz, then Norris. I tuned into the race around this point since NASCAR at Kansas - also a banger of a race, I might get into that later actually - was in a rain delay. Piastri and Sainz made their pitstops, Lando was actually going quick - IIRC he had the fastest lap at this point - but still, it looked to me like Max had a clear path to the lead for the umpteenth time.

Kevin Magnussen, attempting to overtake hometown driver Logan Sargeant, hit the Williams and sent him into the barrier gearbox first. Logan was out on the spot, Kevin continued, and the safety car came out.

Now, maybe Bernd Maylander was just used to slotting in ahead of Max Verstappen - and can you blame him after these last three years? - but the safety car picked up Max in second, while Lando was free to run to the delta. Everyone knew he was going to make a free pitstop at this point, but with the rest of the field stuck behind the safety car, the question became...is Lando going to put a hole lap on the field?

Well, fortunately or unfortunately, race control waved the field by the safety car before any shenanigans could occur, so when Lando made his stop and came out on fresh hards, he caught the safety car with the rest of the field directly behind.

This is where things got fun.

On the restart, full disclosure, I thought Lando blew it and let Max Verstappen get too close...only for the Red Bull to fail to get the pass done on the start-finish straight. Lando kept the lead...and pulled away for the rest of the race.

Meanwhile, Verstappen spent the first part of the post-SC portion of the race breaking out of Leclerc's DRS range, while behind, Piastri and Sainz where showing that DRS wasn't a free pass this time out. And that's really what I liked about this race - the fact that, lap after lap, Sainz would get DRS on Piastri and would try and pass going into turn eleven...and it wouldn't be enough.

Unfortunately, Sainz eventually just decided to barge his way through and sent Piastri into the pits for a new front wing and fresh tyres, but the idea was there. DRS was an overtaking assist, but it wasn't a free overtake - and that's how I believe it should be.

That being said, as Piastri showed once he was on fresh tyres, a faster car could get by, so he charged through the likes of Albon and Ricciardo, taking fastest lap and eventually finishing thirteenth after having come out of the pits nineteenth. Sainz would get a five second penalty post race.

We had a new winner in Lando Norris, the winner started from fifth on the grid, it was a Grand Prix in the United States at a pleasant afternoon timeslot for me, and for the first time, it felt like it lived up to the hype of Miami.

Now there was also another thing, and it's so divisive that I'm not even sure if I should talk about it in this blog, but it's that Donald Trump was in attendance. He was a guest of Muhammad Ben Sulayem and Liberty Media, they took him through the McLaren garage, he posed with Zak Brown outside the garages, and he took a photo with Ben Sulayem and Lando Norris post-race. Not only that, but David Croft, in his race winning call went "On a weekend where McLaren has welcomed an ex-President into their garage, it's Norris who trumps Verstappen!"

So...in the eyes of some people, Norris' first win is forever going to be associated with a divisive ex-President who is one: subject to various legal proceedings in a number of states, and two: is running for office yet again. I hate that for Norris.

I'm not getting into the politics, I'm not making a judgment either way, please don't use this as a place to rant about your particular political views, I'm just saying it sucks that, a day after this guy's first win, I'm still seeing people talk about a guy who was a guest in the paddock rather than the guy who actually won the race.

It must suck for your first win to be at the center of people's political and moral arguments one way or another. I wish it wasn't a topic of conversation coming out of this race.

So yeah, I got to watch an F1 race I enjoyed for the first time in awhile, I even watched some of the post-race content, and by the time that was wrapping up, it was time for NASCAR.

I really like 1.5 mile triovals and Kansas is one of the best ones. We had moments of three, four, and even five wide in that race, and at the end of it all, we got the closest winning margin in NASCAR history. 0.001 seconds for Kyle Larson in the #5 HendrickCars Chevrolet over Chris Buescher in the #17 Castrol Edge Ford Mustang. I was rooting for Buescher, I desperately wanted Ford to get their first win of the season, but seeing that, I just had to throw my hands up and say it was a good race.

So, while there wasn't any MotoGP or Indycar this weekend, F1 and NASCAR managed to give me a pretty good Sunday of racing. I'm pleasantly surprised and I'm glad I can say that.

I hope McLaren can keep the forward momentum going and actually challenge Red Bull somewhat consistently, and I hope Ford can snap their winless streak in NASCAR sometime soon.

#motorsports #racing #f1 #formula 1 #formula one #miami gp 2024 #miami grand prix #nascar #nascar cup #kansas speedway

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confusedpandabear · 3 months ago

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Noctifa smut prompt! Sex in the Regalia hehe ;)

DISCLAIMER: This is fanfiction kids, don’t try this at home!

Tifa’s never driven something as new as the Regalia, or anything near as fast as it too.

So she hesitates, almost lets the set of keys slip through her fingers when Noctis tosses them to her over the bonnet, grinning widely at the surprised look on her face.

“I call shotgun, yeah?”

He’s kidding around because it’s just the two of them: date four and he’s already letting her drive his precious car, which is probably a good sign but make or break in a new and budding relationship, depending on whether she manages to crash it into a tree and kill the both of them.

Tifa sent him a wry smile.

“You sure?”

“Of course,” Noctis shrugged, sliding into the passenger side. He leaned over the gearbox to open the door of the driver’s side for her too, ever the gentleman. “I know you’re a good driver, Tifa.”

Tifa likes to think so too but she doesn’t really feel like it, driving 10mph under the speed limit because all she can concentrate on is Noctis’ unrelenting gaze on her, his attention so undivided that it has her needlessly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and saying:

“Noctis.”

“Hm?”

“You’re distracting me.”

A flash of white teeth revealed his amusement.

“I’m not doing anything but looking at you looking very sexy while driving my car. If you’re distracted, that’s your prerogative.”

Tifa scoffed, appearing unaffected, but the next time she rolled the Regalia to a stop at a red light, she reached over and palmed at his jaw to reorient his face away from hers, which had them both laughing.

Conceding defeat, Noctis fiddled with the sound system between them, tuning them into a local radio station and then resting a hand on her upper leg.

The contact is natural, idle for him and them, and Tifa wouldn’t have paid it any mind until she could feel his thumb tracing the line of elastic at the top of her stockings, then his fingers dipping between her thighs.

“Noct—?”

“—Eyes on the road, Tifa,” he said, smirking when she glanced at him with upturned brows.

It was dusk and she had just turned them onto the highway, where there was no one else and nothing but an endless road through the desert for miles.

Still, it was no excuse to be touching her like that while she was driving, turning her knuckles white from her iron grip on the steering wheel as his hand strayed closer to the arousal pounding between her thighs.

The more she tried to ignore it, the further his fingers travelled up her skirt and to her eternal horror, Tifa felt her hips cant towards them, her pulse skittering at their proximity.

The shift, as minute as it was, does not get past Noctis when he finally lets them brush over her centre, feather-light at first, then the second time more purposeful, again and again until he pushes her underwear to one side to seek out the soft wetness that greets him and—

—And that’s when Tifa abruptly swerves the car into a lay-by, causing him to withdraw his hand to maintain his balance against the car’s interior until she screeched them to a halt.

She turned to him and huffed out angrily:

“Noctis! Are you insa—?!”

But he swallows her reprimand with his mouth on hers, unfastening his seatbelt in the process and quicker than she thought humanly possible.

He launched himself towards her, vaguely registering Tifa’s tiny yelp in surprise and her hands carding through the hair on the back of his head.

The position was uncomfortable; Noctis having to lean over the gear stick with one hand braced on the headrest behind her as the other buried itself between her legs once more.

It didn’t matter though because a kind of madness had taken over, a kind of desperation that had their tongues tangling and their hands grappling and Tifa grinding herself against the heel of Noctis’ palm as his fingers slipped and curled and worked their magic inside of her.

He manages to coax an orgasm so hard that it knocks the wind out of her, leaving her gasping and completely consumed by a surging tide of sensation engulfing her entire body.

Noctis drew back just in time to watch her fall apart, easing her through it, letting her ride it out on his fingers and taking advantage of her parted mouth to bite her bottom lip between his teeth and suckle the pain away with his tongue.

“Noctis…” she whines with hooded eyes, all weak and dazed but far from fully satisfied.

He knew what she was thinking.

“Take this back to mine?” he said but he shouldn't have wasted his breath, when Tifa put the car into gear to make a sharp U-turn and sent the tyres screeching into the night.

#ask panda #anonymous cutie #noctifa #noctis lucis caelum #tifa lockhart #panda's first noctifa fic!#sorry if it's bad i wrote it on my phone lol #thanks for the prompt anon i love these two so keep 'em comin'#ffvii #ffxv

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artist-issues · 4 months ago

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I’ve been watching the Planes movies quite a bit recently (positive perils of having younger siblings lol) and to me Dusty Crophopper’s character progression from his racing movie to the Fire and Rescue movie feels so odd.

like we go from this guy who’s sometimes really confident in his skills, and sometimes doubts them, but is overall humble about them and is surprised when other people who aren’t his friends like him/believe in him.

BUT THEN in Planes Fire and Rescue (which I might say morally was a ‘worse’ movie, but I loved the setting and new characters more) he is SOOOOO arrogant and prideful, especially towards Blaze. Especially that scene when Skipper, Sparky, Chuck and Dotty just told Dusty that his gearbox was gone, and he disregarded Blaze’s orders and was super prideful and didn’t care at all about his or Blaze’s safety. And while he does ‘redeem’ himself by saving the RV’s later, it doesn’t feel like that specific character issue was never resolved.

idk, I might be blowing this out of proportion a bit, I haven’t had this theory for more than 10 mins and might change my mind after thinking about it more, but i was wondering if you had any thoughts. (Great analysis of Mufasa and Silva btw!)

I haven’t seen Planes yet! The animation geek in me knows that Christian Disney animator Mark Henn pitched the original idea for Planes, but then they told him it was too much like Cars, and passed on it…but then went ahead and made it without letting him direct later on. So that sort of left a bad taste in my mouth. But I remember being surprised and impressed by the trailer for the “fire & rescue” one because it looked so dramatic, back when it was coming out. So I’ll watch them and then come back and see what stuck with your thoughts! I’m sure you’re not blowing it out of proportion

#Planes #mark henn #Disney animation #disneytoon studios #planes fire and rescue #cars #animation

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theviolenttomboy · 1 year ago

Text

Found this interesting segment off of an Anime News Network post about Nintendo:

This past week, there was a lot of news about Nintendo and their corporate policies; their new employee rate is clocked in at an astounding 98.8%, which isn't just high for the industry. That's an unprecedented high for Japan in general. There was also the development that the upcoming Super Mario Wonder wasn't developed with a deadline in mind—developers were allowed to iterate on ideas and metaphorically throw stuff at the walls to see what stuck. The result is, well, Super Mario Wonder. And let's not forget, this year's The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom was also delayed by a whole year in the name of polishing the base game—the result is absolute programming witchcraft, courtesy of how well the ridiculously-intricate Fuse mechanic works on a Nintendo Switch (while "bigger" open-world games can't even keep their physics in line). Also worth pointing out is that Nintendo was willing to start from scratch with Metroid Prime 4 because they didn't like how the game was coming along in development. Nintendo is the result of a studio actually giving a rip about what they put out and making sure the people they hire are well-cared-for while they do it, not just in the office but also in their personal lives—while Japan doesn't formally recognize same-sex marriage, Nintendo extends the same benefits to developers in same-sex partnerships as they do to heterosexual ones. (For the record, Nintendo isn't perfect, and I look forward to Nintendo of America cleaning up their act with regards to their contractors.) Smarter people than myself have also pointed out that, unlike many American studios, Nintendo rarely—if ever—sees the kinds of mass layoffs that the likes of Activision-Blizzard see. The people working on Super Mario Wonder likely include many veteran staff who have worked at Nintendo long enough to get a grip on how a Mario game should "feel," and in turn are allowed to offer advice to younger, newer developers who know they don't have to worry about their job security. Compare this to the likes of EA, who so callously lay off key staff, including some of their most celebrated writers. While the peanut gallery explains how "underpowered" the Switch is, Nintendo has quietly written the book on sustainable production. (It's a real shame that there isn't much they can do about GAME FREAK.) I've seen some folks claim that Nintendo can only do all of these because of how much money they have. And this is valid... to a point. I can see Supergiant Games (creators of Hades and Bastion), Coldwood Interactive (creators of Unravel) or rose-engine games (creators of Signalis) not being able to just dump a ton of work to start all over again on a current project, or just delay a game for an entire year because they wanted to make sure all their "T"s were crossed. But if we're talking the usual American stand-bys—Gearbox Studios, BioWare, NetherRealm Studio, Infinity Ward—then you can miss me with that load of bullcrap. As always, the late Satoru Iwata taking a 50% pay cut during Nintendo's lean years is a big, fat black eye to the rest of the gaming industry that loves to report their record-breaking profits before dropping the axe on whole chunks of their workforce. And it's a tremendous indictment to the likes of Bobby Kotick and other overpaid executives who sit atop these gaming studios.

#nintendo #huh #sounds like working for nintendo is a dream #someone in twitter once mentioned #it's super hard to get in #but it looks like once you do #nintendo is deadset on you staying #i have read they're easy to collab with tho #this is kinda why i feel uneasy about talking about pirating new first party nintendo stuff #they actually pay their guys #sure pirate the out of print stuff #but your money isn't going to fund a yatch #also revealed this year #the president and miyamoto have 2 mil a year salaries #more than enough to be comfortable #but freakin modest as hell compared to american ceos #but yeah i wish game freak could do better

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ohtobeleah · 2 years ago

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Ya girl needs happy thoughts about ToE...so looking into the future, who teaches Dot how to drive?? And does she ever get to drive the Bronco?? Is she good at driving? Is she bad? Does she get her own car??

I feel like Bradley definitely takes on that duty for all three Bradshaw children. But of course it starts with Dot. And that’s not negating that you definitely do the odd lesson here and there when you’ve gotta run to the shops and Dots clawing at your ankles to let her drive you.

Jake does a couple too, purely out of convenience, he stops by Dots school. Parks the car, changes up where he’s post up, straps in for dear fucking life and text Amilia (Who is never ever allowed to teach anyone ever, how to drive)

But it’s mostly Bradley. And it’s still up for debate about the Bronco. That’s Bradley’s baby. So when Dot is dangling the Bronco keys in front of her dads face once Sunday morning when he’s very much enjoying still being in bed at a late ten thirty—Bradley is raising a brow, looking his daughter dead in the eye before he’s rolling over with a gruff.

“I’m old but I’m not senile—I’ve told you no.”

“Dad! Come on, the Bronco is so cool! You have to let me drive it just once!”

“You can’t drive stick shift—“

“Because you haven’t taught me!” Okay she had him there. So with a heavy sigh and far too much hesitancy evident in his tone of voice—Bradley is sitting up, Dot hates that her dad isn't like all the other dads she knows. He’s fit and tan and keeps himself in shape. It makes her squint her eyes shut and groan because he’s not wearing a shirt and the matching tattoo he has with uncle Jake is on full display on his right pec.

“Fine, go get your log book.” Dot beames. She’s so ecstatic that she gets to drive the Bronco. Bradley’s not so ecstatic as he reaches for his phone, calls his hire ups and asks if he can borrow one of the tarmacs because he’s got a teenager wanting to drive the Bronco and the last thing Bradley needs is for either him or Dot? Is to be charged with unintentional vehicular manslaughter. So to base they go, the last pace Bradley Bradshaw ever wants to be on his one fucking day off.

“Okay so—“ Bradley’s nearly in tears when he watches Odette climb up into the driver’s seat of the Bronco. They’re sitting on the empty runway. “You gotta put your foot down slowly, and when you see the needle climb, shift into second.” Bradley’s trying to explain but the information being delivered is just going straight over Dots head. “Odette, are you even listening to me?”

“I am, how do I shift gears?” Oh my god this kid is gonna ruin the gearbox for sure. Bradley can practically see dollar signs coming out of Dot's mouth as she speaks.

“You have to put your foot down on the clutch, and slowly release—“

When Dot starts up the engine, turning the key into the ignition, Bradley feels his heart drop into his stomach. He’s not ready to die, not yet. He holds onto the handle above his head to the right and prays to his parents that although he loves them dearly—he wasn’t ready to see them yet.

“Dad, you can open your eyes.” Dots chuckling, she’s seamlessly changing gears, from first to second and from second to third. “Uncle Jake drives a manual, remember? I was just fuck assing around.” Dot teased her dad, who’s looking whiter than Uncle Bob on Taco Tuesday. “I know how to drive stick—“

“Oh.” It’s almost instantly Rooster is letting the tension in his muscles go. “Well, alright then.” And for a while Dot does a pretty good job just driving around the tarmac at her dad’s instruction. Bradley’s guiding her around. Telling her to slow down, speed up, chuck a right and a left and it always goes pretty well. So well in fact that he lets her drive home.

You were expecting Brsdley to arrive home in tears. But when Dot pulled up in the driveway with a smile so bright smeared across her face your heart melted.

“She’s actually a pretty good driver.” Rooster calls out as Dot parks, his forearm is resting on the rolled down window. “Don’t let Amilia get anywhere near her, we don’t want her going backwards—“

You and Bradley meet Dot half way. She saves for half her second hand car and you pay the rest. But she usually just takes whatever car is in the drive until she gets her own.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~**~

#terms of endearment// bradley bradshaw #terms of endearment// jake seresin #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley x reader #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw #rooster bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw

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mercurygray · 1 year ago

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‘a touch at the end’ prompt for Daphne and Mike.

Hope your idle hours in the airport mean you are headed somewhere fun!

Thanks, friend! Idle hours in the airport were actually spent coming home from a very fun work conference - back to the grind tomorrow, sadly. This was a fun prompt - although I'm not sure why I decided on present tense.

He hasn't planned on being here at all.

They've left him a little at sixes and sevens, here in Cairo. He's been debriefed about Stirling's capture, and the military intelligence people have taken his statement, but no one has really told him he can leave, and so he is simply hanging around the office, waiting for something he can't name - until he hears his name, from somewhere near the door.

"You need a chauffeur? Sadler here's an excellent driver, take him."

The Major evidently asking the question doesn't look like he believes that. "Can you handle a Bentley?"

A Bentley?! He could almost sing. "Handle anything you like, sir."

"Good. There's a dance tonight at Shepheard's and some fellows need driving from the consulate. There's a house car. Need a better uniform- see the man downstairs about getting some trousers, will you? And a shave," he adds, his lip turned up a little at the sight of Mike's hair.

"Of course, sir." SAS men pride themselves on being wild, but on balance, the beard is a small price to pay for the chance to drive a Bentley.

And what a magnificent beast it is! The car is beautiful, black and trim and purring like a kitten even here in the desert. Someone takes a great deal of care with this engine, and he treats it with the respect it so rightly deserves, easy on the clutch and gentle with the gearbox. This is a thing of beauty, and must be handled well. Stepping out at the consulate, Mike can see himself in the gleam of the door and stands just a little taller, his cream beret only a little rakish over his freshly trimmed hair. He didn't let the barber take the whole beard - it's just been trimmed back into obedience for the evening to keep him presentable.

There are a pair of men in tailcoats waiting near the door, and a woman in red, already a little tipsy, to judge by the way she's leaning against one of the men, glancing back into the well-lit entryway of the building. "Well, come on, you, or we'll be late!"

And as the last woman comes out the door, Mike's heart falls. He should have known she'd be here.

She is a thing of beauty, too.

But here she can't be Daph, at least to him. She's not even Daphne - she's Miss Markham-Reed, brilliant and bejeweled with her diamante clips and dancing shoes, ready to be the darling of the ballroom and a whole host of men who are universes above him in rank. These are the men she should be dancing with every Friday night, men with Honorable next to their names and estates waiting for them at home. And she's still too good for all of them.

One of her escorts calls her name, and she laughs like anything, eyes sparkling in that way that only she has - until she sees him, and the laughter stops.

He springs into action, opens the door. "Let me get that for you, Miss." He holds out his hand so the drunk woman can hold on as she climbs in, balancing her evening bag and her dress against the champagne she's already drunk.

"Oh, steady on, Eloise," one of the men says, climbing in after her and laughing as she rearranges herself on the seat. "One can't have too much fun before the party starts, you know." Daphne carries up the rear of the group, her own evening bag sea-glass green, dress long and slinking, like a wave.

"Thank you, Corporal." For a moment, she's holding his hand, too, and they lock eyes, the moment somehow more intimate than a kiss.

"Careful, miss. Your dress." He carefully picks up the beaded tailing and tucks it up into the door, his hand just barely brushing her leg, the silk of the stocking on her ankle. In another universe he'd be beside her in the backseat, black-tie and tails, hand fully up the long column of her dress. (He's taken her out of dresses like that before, hands careful on the beading, the silk of her precious stockings.) But tonight is not his night - he is in her world, and not she in his.

"Well, come on, man, we haven't got all night," one of the men drawls from the back seat.

"Of course, sir," Mike replies, shutting the door and stepping around to the front of the car. "Shepheard's, sir, was it?"

Her three companions are loud and excited in the backseat all the way to the hotel, quite content to treat him as an extension of the car itself, an automaton barely worth noticing. But every time he glances in the mirror, her eyes are still there, still following his.

There's a long queue of cars when they arrive, long enough to make you wonder if there's even a war on when there's a party like this on offer, but half the men are in uniform and there's still a searchlight on the roof to remind everyone the Germans could come at any time, if they liked.

"Will you wait here, do you think?" she asks, sounding disinterested as he gives her another hand up, out of the back seat and into the warm, loud circle of light outside the hotel, music drifting out from the lobby into the street. "I don't know if I'll stay."

"For as long as you like, miss," he says, anonymously efficient, and the thought gives him hope. She'll pass through many hands tonight, but at the end, she'll still be his to take home, to touch the way the others can't, and that's all that matters to him.

#i have written a thing #daphne markham-reed #sas rogue heroes oc #mercurygraypresents

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wozadogtor · 1 year ago

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STORY TIME

So, context, i work in boarding kennels, we look after peoples dogs when theyre on holiday/renovating/etc and such. Couple weeks ago i get this call from a very, very European accented woman who wants to board ten (10!) dogs in our kennels and needs it urgently, however this is a holiday period and i genuinely just cant do that. You know? Talk about it with my boss and theyre like. No. However this lady doesnt let up, shes calling us all god damn week until eventually my boss caves and tells me theyre figuring out a quote that will hopefully scare them off because, ten dogs, thats not gonna be cheap.

I tell them in that call ill call back at 12pm to give them a quote.

TEN MINUTES LATER, I get another call, this time from the local council who are trying to confirm im picking the dogs up at 12pm. And im like, fuck, fuck, this is a council job now, we aren't really in a position to be saying no to the council, need to like, suck up to them bigly if we want some upcoming things approved. You know how it is. Minor thing, the council lady insisted i confirm I wont sell the dogs (red flag) which is weird, but sure. So i quickly call my boss and inform them, we agree "fuck it 100/day 10 per dog" which is about break even for us, i call them back with that quote, arrange to pick the dogs up at 12pm. Now, i was just gonna go down in my car, since she had said they're puppies and I'm thinking, "alright her dogs had a litter and she doesn't know what to do about it, should be easy enough". But the evil spider that lives in my brain tips me off that you need help and backup and explicitly you need to bring a woman because you are so big+scary. So, i call my sister whos more than happy to do this for a 20. She brings her bf, and we go get the dogs.

The address they give us is a public beach. Red flag number 4 or something at this point. But we get there and these dogs are in fact puppies. 4 month old puppies. They're all fairly well grown kelpies (sheepdog). I am THANKING my lucky stars i brought backup, because these dogs are just, running around the place unrestrained on the beach. It takes us a good ten to fifteen minutes to wrangle the little bastards into the car and my help is playing wackamole in the back of my station wagon to keep them from jumping into the front and doing puppy things to my gearbox. The owners are living out a van and just, letting the dogs loose i guess. It's a short drive, easy enough, but we get her to sign the forms and that's that. We have the 9 puppies and their mom now. I told them their cutoff is the 28th of october and they agree. NONE of these dogs are vaccinated btw so we have to do isolation protocols on them.

NEXT DAY, she turns up. Wants to walk her dogs. Off leash, on the road. We pretty bluntly tell her no, and she's like. "but you said i could visit" and it's like. Yeah, i did say you could visit, not fucking kill them on a main road. So, while our backs are turned because as i said, holiday period being busy, there was another client there. She just, walks into the kennels, lets them out. Fucking, chaos. I can't have these UNVACCINATED dogs running around getting close and personal with the other clients dogs, so we shuffle her and the dogs into a little side alley we have and tell her to stay put. She can't really get anywhere from there anyway. We deal with our other clients, come back, and since its feeding time we thought we'd get the puppies back into their pens via food bribe. She wants to do it, and insists on feeding other dogs/doing the dishes. And its like. Lady, do you jump over the counter and make your own sandwich at the cafe. What the fuck ARE you DOING. We sort this out, an understanding of sorts, that she can't just do-that. So she turns up the next day and does it again.

At this point, I'm exasperated. I don't WANT to call the cops because fuck that and + also they'd deport her. So i work out that she can come during closing hours and walk her dogs, on the property, in the carpark/driveway, and i'll close the gate to the property so there's no danger. I also point out the dogs cannot go into the nearby grassy paddocks because it is a) lambing season, there's lambs, puppy dogs stupid and will hurt them or get hurt by the angry mother sheep. b) snake season, its been unseasonably warm and they're out there. Not likely, but if you find one you're down at least one dog. And c) Private property, fuck off. So, she turns up twenty minutes before we close and demands to do it there and then. I make her wait, so i go close the gate up front and let her have her dogs to play, give them a few toys/balls etc. Come back from locking the front gate and they're in the paddock. Fuck my entire life. Thankfully I had forseen this and moved the sheep prior (lol) but snakes are still a concern. It's, fine. It's fine. Nothing happens. But now i have to like, legitimately ban her from the premesis. She whines, but understands that she's fucked up.

Anyway, next few days go smooth. She doesn't come by again. Dogs behave quite well when shes not around even. It's going well. A couple of the skinnier dogs even start gaining weight (red flag). I get another call from the council. This one is more uh, serious. It's just the ranger, not the cops, dog cop if you will, so I know this guy and am fine working with him. But apparently the people who own this dog are in some deep DEEP shit. The lady i've been talking to isn't the owner, but a friend of theirs. And apparently, the actual owner has been caught in Melbourne and is in the process of being deported for visa fraud charges. She has been bouncing between two different council areas for the better part of the year by now with alllll the dogs in tow for the latter part of it, to avoid getting caught. But she was so delinquent* in one of these council areas that she got her ass BANISHED from it, and suddenly she dumped the dogs on her friend and fled. And has just been caught. The council is very interested in where they're taking the dogs when she picks them up. We give them the date and time they're picking them up. They'll be there to offer a hand moving them to the property and gently tell them that if they don't surrender them there will be legal concequences. You know, trying not the fuck these people over with a 10k+ fine.

*breaking rental leases by subletting to 5-6 people (plus 10 dogs) in studio apartments zoned for 1-2 people. 10 or so times. Some of them informal charity agreements where she told them they were facing homlessness (more on this later) and needed somewhere to stay and please help etc etc.

Day of pickup comes, we've been doing some private digging ourselves. They've been going around on facebook community groups begging for a place to stay with their ten dogs. Surprising i know. Someones agreed to do it on their suburban lot, which, super illegal to have that many dogs on a property like that. Rangers are aware. So they get here, and aren't going straight to the property, they're going to the vet first. To get microchipped, not vaccinated. The rangers ask the obvious question, why no vax. Quote; "they're healthy dogs they don't need it". Rangers raise an eyebrow at this but go along with it assuming the vet will just vaccinate them anyway given how obvious it is they're being surrendered. They come into our office to pay the bill, happily do so, very thankful we took them in, etc. Pay on one of those platinum cards they only give incredibly rich people. Hello. What the fuck. Why do you have one of THOSE. Turns out, French nationals who have very rich parents and basically have no concept of repsonsibility or concequences. They want to keep the dogs because they think they can sell them to a farm for big bucks. They can't, these are untrained and they have no papers, basically any sheep station will laugh at them if they try.

So, after this, it's officially not our problem. But my boss is nosy and wants to be kept in the loop. We find out from the rangers that the vet visit didn't exactly go as planned. As the vet, believing their story about being nearly homeless and needing help soso bad, tells them quote; "If the council could sieze the dogs they already would have, you're safe". You. Fucking. Moron. So armed with this knowledge they go back to this suburban residential property, the rangers tail them an hour or two later and report them for having ten dogs on a property. Which, duh! Like, you can't do that. We can, but we live on a 4 acre lot. This is a tiny little surfies shack in a residential neighborhood. The owner of the property who very generously helped them out with their situation was the one that copped the 10k fine. The French nationals surrendered the dogs and have since vanished. The dogs have been vaccinated, desexed, etc. And as of writing half have been rehomed. Very in demand, kelpie puppies.

The end. The moral of the story is never work in this industry.

#Kennel story #woe is lucy

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primevein · 1 year ago

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The Prime of His Youth: Book II: Quest for Fire: Ch32: Old Friends

Jack had Arcee stop, and he climbed from off her back. He pulled the scanner out of his inner jacket pocket as Arcee transformed. He looked, trying to follow the where the scanner was pointing. It wasn't until he looked up, seeing scratches on the ceiling.

"What do you see?" Arcee asked.

"Claw marks?" Jack asked. He then looked at the scanner before looking at the ceiling. He pointed at a spot. Arcee transformed her right hand into her longshot blaster and aimed. She fired, at first once, and then a few times more. A box fell out. She leapt up. transforming her hand back as she caught it. She landed beside Jack, carrying what similar to an Energon cube.

Jack looked distant for a moment. "Something the matter?" Arcee asked him.

"I don't know?" Jack asked, "I thought it would be harder." He then pointed Arcee down. She kneeled down and opened the box. Inside were a number of ampules with what looked like autoinjectors. Jack then closed the box and held it. "If it's like this, we can hit another couple of points before we head back to base."

* * *

They stood in the base with their dozen-box stash of innoculators.

"We're not getting shots?" Miko asked.

"First, we do not know what kind of effect it would have on Humans." Roxana stated, "Even with with the injections."

"And?" Miko asked.

"The injections last for a cycle." Roxana stated.

"Meaning?.." Miko asked.

"Meaning we have to wait for Ser-Ket to get pissed off." Jack replied, "Then we have to pick a fight."

"It's amazing how he can make an epic showdown boring." Sludge stated.

"I know!" Miko shouted.

"Rip - her - wings - off." Grimlock stated.

Miko gave Jack a deep, expectant look. "What?" Jack asked.

"I don't know, thought it might ruin your peacenicking." Miko stated.

"There's one important thing Optimus told me." Jack stated, and paused, "Some villains can't be reformed. Ser-Ket is the biggest thing stopping the Dinobots. We have to stop her."

"Not, you know, reform?" Miko asked.

"You think you can pull it off?" Jack asked.

"Yeah, that's not my strong suit." Miko stated, and pointed at him.

"Thank you for having faith in me, but I doubt we could capture her." Jack simply replied.

"So, what's the plan?" Miko asked.

"Arcelia has some shock sensors." Jack replied, "Windblade will set them up. When Ser-Ket gets closed, we strike a target. She attacks, falls into our ambush. Roxana will have us innoculated, so, we can actually fight her, despite the ToxEn. Hopefully by that time, the safe passage will be ready to New Kalis. We can then kidnap the Forged and Foundlings, and hopefully break their indoctrination."

"He manages to take the wind out of my wings." Swoop stated.

"Prudence." Arcee stated.

"Want - fight - now." Grimlock stated.

"Does it look like I'm stopping you?" Jack asked, and Grimlock and Slug gave him a curious look. "We'll contact you when Ser-Ket's in play. We can them meet up and pick a target."

* * *

Ratchet pulled up to the house in New Kalis and paused. The doors opened and Knockout stepped out. "Get your rusted old gearbox in here."

Ratchet drove into the house as Knockout stepped aside. "I honestly wasn't sure what to expect." As he rolled in he saw a functioning lab setup.

Bumblebee walked up to him, "When he called us, he wasn't sure we would have a lab. Through the power of him being Jack, with some help from the Elite Guard and this fair city, we have a safe route between here and the Dinobot base."

"Dinobots?!" Ratchet's rusted voice asked. "I half thought they were rumours and legend. Though, thinking about it, Grimlock was always... I honestly can't think of a polite way to put it."

"Loose cannons?" Knockout asked.

"Yes." Ratchet stated.

"Brutal savages?" Knockout continued.

"Yes."

"Apparently they are even worse after Shockwave got through with them." Bumblebee replied. "Let's get you unloaded."

* * *

Finally unloaded, Ratchet transformed and looked around. He let out a disappointed sigh.

"What's the matter?" Knockout asked, "You're not that old."

"THAT old?" Ratchet asked, "Do you have any idea how?.."

"Anything we can help you with?" Knockout asked.

"It's just... I hoped... I would see..."

"Over here!" Raf shouted. Ratchet looked over to see him standing on a Cybertronian console, waving at him. A smile immediately appeared on Ratchet's face as he walked over. "The lab here has come quite a ways." Raf said. He looked down and then up, and his glasses automatically adjusted themselves on his face.

"Still, I'm not too old that they could have called me." Ratchet uttered.

"The plan was to wait until we could get you a lab to work in." Raf said.

"Until we had the safe corridor, we couldn't make the most use out of you." Bumblebee stated.

"I still could have helped." Ratchet asserted.

"How much to you like dodging Insecticon swarms?" Knockout asked, and Ratchet just grumbled.

"We also didn't get the newcomers." Bumblebee stated, and pointed at the freed scientists.

"And they are?"

Gella walked up to him, "Were enslaved by Shockwave. We were lucky to get discovered before they blew the lab up." She put on a forced smile.

"You were what?" Ratchet asked, "What is Jack doing?"

"From the sounds of it," Bumblebee stated, "smash and grab. The whole point of this is to find a way to break their brainwashing.

"Break it?!" Overland shouted, "Undo it!"

"Heal it." Gella stated.

Ratchet slowly nodded his head.

"The big bad is Ser-Ket." Knockout stated, "If you think the Dinobots were boogey-men, Ser-Ket was... is... even worse. She was surgically altered to adopt a form similar to a Predacon, and breathes ToxEn."

"Nooooo." Ratchet gasped.

"We have an injection!" Overland shouted, and turned back to his work.

"Injection?" Ratchet asked.

"Over there." Raf said, and pointed at the stack of boxes. Ratchet walked over and opened it up. He pulled out one of the phials.

"Autoinjectors?" Ratchet asked, and looked about, until he realized Gella was the one that wanted to answer.

"Originally to help Ser-Ket tolerate the ToxEn." Gella stated.

"Tolerate ToxEn?!" Ratchet asked, "Could this be an innoculation against ToxEn exposure?!"

In reply Gella just developed a cheshire grin.

"Leave it to Shockwave to take something like that and not use it to help anyone." Knockout stated, "Even, you know, his own side."

"He was probably afraid of it being used against him." Ratchet stated.

"I will admit I haven't always been... ethical..." Knockout stated, "But if we had a cure, every Decepticon medkit should have had one."

"Which is why you are an Autobot now." Raf said with a bright smile. Knockout slowly nodded.

"I do actually want to help people." Knockout asserted.

"It's a pleasure to actually work with you." Ratchet said, and offered him his hand. Knockout nervously took it and the two shook. Ratchet then turned to Gella, "Ratchet." he said.

"Gella." she said, and pointed to Overland, "That's Overland." she added, and turned to Angle Drive, "And the last is Angle Drive."

Angle Drive barely acknowledged his existence.

* * *

Sirenia stood over Jack and he turned to look up at her, "Ratchet has joined them in the lab." Sirenia said with a smile.

"Wish I could see him under better circumstances." Jack said.

"Would you prefer the Great War?" Arcee asked, and Jack shrugged.

"Either way, that means we can start, right?" Miko asked.

"Right." Jack stated.

Arcee turned and walked towards Roxana, who nervously turned to look at her. She looked her deep in the eyes before leaning in to give her a passionate kiss. "I'll need to borrow your shock prod."

Roxana just stood there, dumbstuck.

#transformers #prime #the prime of his youth #darcee #jack darby #arcee

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